I’ve something to confess: I am concentrating on forgetting to smoke.
Have you ever seen me quit smoking? I am, as the old joke goes, so good at it that I do it all the time.
I’ve been thinking about this, my lack of commitment in the “I quit” arena and my woeful inability to remember for more than a couple months at a time that I don’t want to smoke any more.
And I think I’ve got it figured out: It’s the lack of fanfare accompanying the decision to quit. It’s too short lived.
I mean, think of it. You might get a word of encouragement from your mother, maybe a coworker notices. But am I alone here in thinking there could be more hoopla?
There’s so little of that: hoopla.
I can hear you shaking your head from here and I know! I know. The health benefits!
In yoga the other day, I held on to an “om” far longer than usual.
I cough less.
I’m quite certain that, going forward, my fingers have markedly less chance of smelling like an ashtray.
I have a couple extra bucks.
These are all good things.
But it’s hard, isn’t it? Those cigarettes were mine, they were my little friends: twenty cool slim white friends. With orange heads. That I lit on fire and pulled through my lungs.
Still. It was at one time possible, particularly if there was a Happy Hour going on, that you and I would have had a conversation wherein I earnestly told you that the best pack of cigarettes to have was one that was three-quarters of a way full: a couple are gone, sure, but now they’re easier to pull out of the pack, and anyway, there’s plenty left. Plenty enough to share.
Now we’ll never have that conversation. And I am saddened.
All because I have to keep forgetting to smoke.